


Warm Earth

by Jakowic



Series: Winter Found Us [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Summer Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-02-26 23:58:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18727507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakowic/pseuds/Jakowic
Summary: It's Sunday and Draco is alone with his plants, in his shop that smells like potions and dirt, longing for something with green eyes.





	Warm Earth

**Author's Note:**

> someone asked me to answer a prompt on a tumblr prompt challenge thing. here's a not-drabble

Draco pushes his hair out of his eyes and turns up the volume on his Muggle music device. It’s got curious orange foam things that slide over his ears (quite like earmuffs, but unlike earmuffs, the orange things beam music directly into Draco’s brain) and a wire that connects to a player thing. The little player thing eats the squares (Weasley calls them cassettes)  and they will only play Muggle music but – and don’t tell anyone this – Draco thinks Muggle music is much better than, say, The Weird Sisters.

The Tube slows to a stop and opens its doors with a woosh. Draco doesn’t move from where he’s standing, perfectly content to hold onto one of the hanging straps in the corner of the train. He watches, with little interest, an elderly woman stumble off.

Draco’s been living in Muggle London for five years now. Don’t ask why; the real reason is embarrassing. He likes to tell people it’s because he wanted to unlearn his prejudices – and he definitely has, but that’s not really why he came – and he simply adores their weird coffee contraptions.

“Oh, hello, Ferret-face,” Weasley says, appearing from somewhere to Draco’s left.

“Weasel,” Draco returns flatly, giving no indication that he’d been startled at all.

“I scared you, didn’t I?” Weasley asks. He’s smirking. Draco scowls.

“You absolutely did not.”

“Sure,” he says. Lets a moment of silence pass. “So, have you seen-”

“No,” Draco interrupts. “I haven’t.”

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

“I do,” Draco says. “And I’d appreciate that you wouldn’t.”

Draco hadn’t repaired his relationship with the Weasel easily, or, in fact, on purpose. He’d done it quite by accident, only intending to apologize to Hermione for his behaviour (purism), and he’d accidentally become her friend in the process and then Weasley’s friend and then… well. Whoops.

It’s only a little inconvenient that Weasley travels the same way as Draco to their respective workplaces, and only slightly aggravating that they work on the same street of Diagon Alley – but what’s really infuriating, really absolutely humiliating, is the fact that Harry Potter (yes, yes, the Harry Potter, the golden boy, the Savior of the Wizarding World, Potter, and other such affectionate nicknames) likes to take lunch breaks from working with Weasley at Draco’s shop, because “it’s much quieter than over there, don’t you think?”

(NO, Draco does NOT think his apothecary is quieter than the joke shop, not if it means Harry bloody Potter comes in every day at twelve-thirty, sits on the green shag carpet among Draco’s potion shelves in his purple robes, and eats.)

And, no, Draco has not seen Pansy Parkinson since she was rumored to be back in London for the simple fact that he has no desire to see her. Not after last Christmas.

“Well,” Weasel-face says, apologetic. “I won’t, then.”

Draco lets a moment pass, then two. “Thank you,” he says. It comes out stiffly. He hadn’t meant it to.

He gets off the train with Weasley, and they unlock their doors – well, okay, Draco unlocks his door, Weasley walks into an open shop – and part ways.

It is quiet in Draco’s shop, and cold winter sunlight filters through the few windows he has, putting funny shadows on the walls. They’re high up, and only allow light in at certain times of the day. Draco did that so most of the apothecary’s stock would remain undamaged for as long as he could manage. The door shuts behind him, triggering the little bell (and the charm Draco has attached to it). Draco breathes in the scent of potions and earth and feels, very instantly, at home.

His shop would seem strange to an outsider. Dark mahogany bookshelves take up a majority of the shop’s floor, stocked with books and glass bottles alike, every label handwritten and carefully organized. There are giant potted plants that overshadow the shelves, and along the top of them, shrunken cauldrons and stir sticks sit patiently. The rest of the floor is taken up by a garden. it’s roped off with wooden stakes and twine, but Draco had built a small stone path for customers to wander through and browse. There’s a bucket by the opening that has shears and wicker baskets stacked beside. It’s enchanted to be larger once you step past the ropes, and Draco stays late, late, late every single night caring for it.

He ducks behind the counter and into the little room at the back, shrugging off his coat and scarf. He wraps his Muggle music player in his scarf and sets it aside, so nothing could happen to it. He opens his doors, settles behind the counter, and opens his ledgers and one of the copies of the new potions books. Draco makes notes in both books, copies the ones on the new deliveries onto the rest of the stock and sells them with shortcuts inside. His ledger is an enchanted book that keeps track of every instance Draco has ever done this.

Really, it’s no trouble, and it keeps the boredom at bay.

See, apothecaries aren’t busy businesses, not like the joke shop next door, they’re just necessary. The joke shop is always filled with kids, teenagers, and adults in need of a laugh. It’s filled with nostalgic friends and families and – it’s noisy. Nothing else. It’s a bright, noisy place, and Draco has never been inside.

So, Draco spends most of his days alone (save for Potter, but does he really count as civilized company, he walks in, sits down, eats and leaves) much like Draco imagines the old wandmaker does. Kindred spirits, he and Ollivander are, only needed on some occasions, but without them, the world could very well collapse.

The door chimes and Draco looks up, startled. It’s Potter, standing there in his purple robes, with messy hair, and green (green, green, green – Draco has always liked green) eyes behind big circular frames.

“It’s not twelve-thirty,” is the only intelligent thing Draco can think to say.

“I get two breaks sometimes,” Potter says briskly.

Then, they just stay there, staring at each other. It’s very quiet. Next door, Draco thinks he hears something explode.

“Uh,” Potter says. He gestures vaguely toward the direction of the shelves. “I’ll just be… browsing.”

Draco nods numbly, staring after him as his wild mop of hair ducks and weaves throughout Draco’s store. Only a little discomfited, he goes back to his books. He tracks Potter anyway, he can’t help it. He’s got green, green, green eyes. And he’s got soft-looking hair and a crooked smile and – okay. Draco might be a little bit in love with the git, but Potter in 2004 is very different from Potter at school, and it just seemed like the thing to do when he first went and fell in love.

But Draco is a coward, and no matter how many years he sits in this apothecary across from Weasley’s, he will never say a word.

 

~^~

 

“How are you,” Miriam asks, “you seem so bright-eyed lately.”

Draco offers the receptionist a smile. “I’m very good, thank you.” And he is. Potter’s been coming in twice a day recently, and he spent forty-five minutes this morning carefully asking questions about plants before purchasing a blue-green aloe. As per every Sunday, Draco had closed just after lunch and headed to Melbay London Hospital.

Miriam is on duty every Sunday, and in her misguided elderly friendliness, she had decided to make Draco fond of her. Or something.

“Your mum is an absolute riot this morning. Quite the hit. She’s in the game room.” She points down the hall.

“Thank you, Miriam,” Draco says, and heads down the hall to the room with the rickety card table, old black and white TV and numerous poker games.

“Draco!” His mother cries, delighted, at the sight of him.

“Mother,” he returns, and smiles at her. She’s sitting alone in a large plushy armchair, knitting needles and her oxygen tank on the floor by her feet. He takes the fold out lawn chair across from her and smiles.

Melbay isn’t expensive, which is why she is here. When this series of tests are over, he will take her home again. That won’t be for another month. He uses what’s left of the Malfoy fortune to keep her healthy and to get her the best treatment but life is often… exhausting.

“How’s Harry?” she asks first, like she always does.

He knows she suspects that Draco is… feels… things, but she has no proof, other than Draco’s tirades about Potter on his carpet, in his store, browsing his shelves. She did point out, once, that he’s never kicked Potter out.

They didn’t discuss it after that.

“He’s alright. He bought a blue-green aloe this morning.”

“Oh,” she says. She smiles. “That’s lovely.” Her smile fades. “Darling, I have bad news.”

Draco’s heart rate increases. He leans forward in his seat, lacing his fingers tightly together, hoping that her next words will be mundane, like spilled pudding, no leftover paninis, terrible coffee in the lounge, or that the hospital cook doesn’t do sunny side up.

“Tilly Gardner in room 1015 died last night.”

Draco, treacherously, feels nothing but relief.

“She was alone, darling. I thought about it all week, up right until she passed. She had us here, yes, but the rest of us have visitors. Husbands. Sons. Daughters, grandchildren. We have family, and memories, and love stored up.”

Her eyes meet Draco’s with a fearful glint.

“What will happen to you when I pass? Draco, I don’t want you to be alone.”

 

~^~

 

Harry comes in Monday morning, chipper and bright. Draco doesn’t feel it. It must show in his face, because Harry’s expression shifts into something searching.

“Are you all right?”

Draco, thinking about his mother basically calling him a spinster, decides that no, he is not. “I’m quite fine, thank you,” is what his mouth says instead.

Harry - oh, God, he is Harry now, isn’t he - looks unconvinced. “Okay. I’m just looking for books on aloe veras.”

Draco watches Harry’s retreating back and sighs to himself. He turns back to his desk, and presses the quill to the paper, only, he must press too  hard because the tip snaps off the quill. “Bugger,” he mutters to himself. He ducks under the table and starts rummaging for a new one, only they’re not where he usually puts them. He opens and closes the three same compartments over and over, flattening his hand against the wood, looking, and then, finally, aha, he’s got one.

He must’ve forgotten how to straighten up effectively because he bumps his shoulder, hard, crawling out from under his desk. “Fuck,” he says this time. It’s loud in the quiet of the apothecary. And the little ink bottle rolls over the side of the desk and breaks all over the hardwood, splattering on Draco’s shoes.

Exhausted, irritated, and nursing a sore shoulder, Draco just stares at the offensive ink bottle with a blank expression. He’s having quite a morning.

“Erm,” Harry says. Draco looks up at him.

“What do you want?” Draco says. It sounds snapish. He didn’t want it to.

Harry’s face contorts into something resembling hurt. “Oh, okay. I’ll just… uh. I’ll just go.”

Harry’s halfway to the door when Draco draws in a deep breath and says, “No. Wait. Please. Don’t leave.”

And Harry turns back around.

“It’s just… my mother. She’s got this disease. Her lungs… they’re bad.”

“Draco…” Harry says, face twisting into something unbearably kind.

“She’ll be alright,” Draco interrupts. He hates the pity. “But she has no illusions about her health or her life. We talked yesterday and she…” Draco’s mouth twists and his face contorts into disgust. “she called me a spinster. She thinks I need to get married, or have someone I can marry.”

Harry smiles. “And that upsets you?”

Draco sniffs. “I’m not old, Potter.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Harry returns.

Draco shrugs.

“Anyways. Ron’s been bugging me about it, since you’re friends with him and Hermione, and I’m… uh,” Harry’s cheeks tinge red. Interesting. “You’re invited to the Weasley’s Summer solstice party. At the burrow. Molly says it’s okay.”

Draco, being Draco, can only manages the stiffest nod in the world. He feels like a complete wanker doing it.

“Thank you,” he adds, feeling inadequate. “I’ll try to see if I’m free that day.”

“Bring your mother, too, if she feels well.”

“I’ll ask her.”

Harry, being Harry, smiles at him one last time and then leaves back to the joke shop. Draco sighs to himself, spells the spilled ink back into the repaired bottle and sits down to finish his ledger.

 

~^~

 

First thing he does is make the mistake of actually asking his mother. She’s overjoyed. She’s overexcited. Draco has to force her to sit down so she doesn’t spontaneously stop breathing. Second thing he does is go out and buy an outfit that fits the occasion appropriately. The third thing he does is turn to Weasley on the train and tell him, awkwardly and too formally, that his mother and him would love to attend on Saturday.

Weasley grins.

“Thanks mate, cheers.”

That’s the list of things that lands Draco right here, right now, sitting on the edge of a conjured dancefloor, watching his mother and Charlie Weasley navigate the floor and her oxygen tank, sipping an orange-y drink. The lawn furniture is mismatched but comfortable, and he’s slightly too dressed up, but it’s alright. He doesn’t feel like a recluse or an outcast, if only because his mother is dancing with the dragon-tamer and having a grand time. Ginny Weasley is the most attractive Weasley present, long red hair plaited into twin braids that end at her waist, shoes discarded somewhere on the lawn as she laughs, twirling her father around.

Draco watches her absentmindedly, wonders what she ever saw in Pansy Parkinson.

All the history between him and the people he’s surrounded with. So much history and so little understanding between them all.

“You look thoughtful.”

Draco looks up. It’s Harry, wearing a soft green jumper, tailored black trousers and an old, beat up Hogwarts hat, too small and slightly askew on his head. He’s got the remnants of a laugh in his eyes, and the faintest upturn at the corner of his mouth.

“I was just thinking about Pansy,” Draco says, startled into an honest confession. Harry’s face does a series of complicated things.

“Well,” he says, finally. “We can’t have that, can we?” He offers Draco his hand. “I know a really fast dance.”

“It’s a slow song,” Draco points out.

Harry shrugs. “We can alter it.”

Draco hesitates. He thinks of his mother, sitting in the armchair, frail and small, and _Draco, I don’t want you to be alone_. He takes Harry’s hand.


End file.
